


Anything To Taste Her Smile

by DinosaurTheology



Category: Chicago PD (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Love, Short & Sweet, Sweet, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 13:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8163607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinosaurTheology/pseuds/DinosaurTheology
Summary: He would do anything to taste her smile.





	

**Author's Note:**

> CPD aint mine but I love it. So... Linstead is the best thing since the last best thing. After last night I'm gonna do a LOT of house hunting writing. I feel it in my bones.

She has a delicate face, almost elfin. The contours of cheek and nose seem sharp enough, from time to time, to cut flesh and her eyes flare with ferocity, humor, compassion and intelligence in equal measure. They are grass pushing through the grey, mid-January Illinois snow when it’s so cold that the tears freeze on your eyelashes or the caesious waves of Lake Michigan lapping at ragged wooden docks.

Jay could study Erin’s face all day and never grow tired of it. Everything fascinates him from messily brushed hairline to those Amaranth lips that playfully pout, droop downward in consternation or twitch wryly when something funny, ironic or plain queer drifts across her mind. They do so now while she stands at the counter--Oh my God, their counter--chopping carrots, onions and potatoes for the kari raisu that they are having for supper. It’s an old family recipe, she claims, one of the first that Hank taught her to cook when she was a half-feral child off the streets more wolf than girl.

She catches him staring. “What? Is something wrong with my face?”

“Hmm?” He shakes his head. “No. Just… woolgathering.”

“You promise? Cause if I’ve got a booger or something on me I’m gonna wipe it on you. I swear to God.” She waggles the knife to emphasize what she’s saying.

“First of all, ew. And secondly, no.”

“Then what the hell are you looking at, dude?” She glances away, back to her work. “Nothing that interesting going on here.”

“Really?”

“Nope, not at all.” She tosses onion rind and potato peels into the blue plastic garbage bowl--Erin is a major proponent of the Rachael Ray method of food preparation and cookery--and starts on another round. “Just a skinny girl with weird teeth making supper for a big dope who can’t stop staring.”

He can’t resist. His arms find their way around her waist, he presses his lips against her neck and is rewarded with something long and low that is more growl than moan. The kari raisu will have to wait; dinner ends up delayed for a couple of hours. That’s okay, though. Hunger is the finest spice and both of them know what it’s like to be hungry for years.

He’s held her at her broken, self-loathing worst and scintillating, passionate best. When Nadia died she lashed out, dug her nails into his flesh and soul, but he refused to let go even when she tore bleeding chunks of him loose to pile up on the floor. There was no force on earth that could make him forsake her, especially if even Henry “Motherfucker” Voight hadn’t managed, and he’d even fought off the urge to die once so he could while away his time drowning in her face again.

She, for her part, has kept him in one piece when demons from the Hindu Kush haunt his sleep. When they kicked and gamboled in his brain, last, he rocketed awake slick with sweat, gasping, unable to remember that it was 2016, not 2007 or 2008. She drapes her arm around him, leans her head against his shoulder, murmurs softly in his ear. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. It’s all right. You’re here. You’re with me. You’re all right.”

It starts to come back to him, then. The world came into hazy focus. “I’m sorry. Did I… did I do anything weird or say anything, like, crazy?”

She shakes her head against his shoulder, purses her lips. “Nope. You asked for Sergeant Gerwitz--Mouse, right?--and said to make that the room wasn’t going to blow before you kicked the door. You said that you had to do this for Ali, Hamuz and Khan.”

“Oh, God,” he says. “Oh, God. Oh… oh Jesus fuck.” He leaned against her. “That was a crazy day. It wasn’t the worst of my life, not by a long shot, not really, but I can think of lots of stuff I’d rather be doing.”

“Like this?”

He kisses her temple. “Totally. I could do this all night.”

“Can’t think of anything better to do, huh?”

“I’m starting to think you, like, gave me a nightmare or something so I’d wake up and you could work your wicked designs on my body.”

“Well…” Her voice has that warbly, gentle quality he cannot resist and her eyes are huge, shining in the darkness. “Is it working?”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

She smacks his shoulder. “Bitch-ass.” The broad grin takes less than a second to leapl across her face, and him even less time to bear her to the sheets. He doesn’t see, until morning throws light on them, the bruises that crawl across her ribs and back. Jay feels his heart fall. He must have kicked in his sleep, fought, thrown elbows… and she didn’t consider anything but waking him, caring for him, making sure he was okay. That’s the kind of woman she is. But it’s no surprise, anymore, that she exacted a high tax with those white, even teeth.

He would move heaven and earth for her, would be as happy to nap beside her on a park bench in powder blue uniforms and clutching coffee in their little frozen fingers as in their bedroom with the amazing view of Lake Michigan. He would die for her, has killed for her and would do it again without hesitation. The world has shrunk and apart from Mouse and maybe his brother there just isn’t anyone else in it, anymore. Just the two of them here, together, living their quiet little lives.

Well, maybe not all that quiet. Thank you Henry “My Balls Are Made of Cast Iron and Anger” Voight.

So they keep making sure to do what they're doing. It's not easy but it would be a lot harder if either of them was doing it without the other. He wants to do it for the next forty years, seventy if he can get away with it but he knows that it's not appointed to a man to live for more than a hundred and twenty years. Maybe, just maybe if they're lucky enough to get into heaven, they'll get into it together... and if they happen to be in hell it won't be quite as bad as everyone makes it out to be.

She catches him watching her again at breakfast over the French omelettes he's tried to teach her to make again and again but can't quite seem to land (so he just does them anyway, fluffy and perfect with butter and cheese and capers). "What?"

"Just, you know. You've got a little smudge on your nose. Right..." He pokes her cheek. "There."

She scowls. "I do not. I washed behind my ears and everything."

"Okay. Okay. Suit yourself. Go out all... smudged up and make a fool of yourself. It won't be my fault. It won't be on my head. I covered my ass."

"You are an ass."

"Jeez. This is the kind of abuse I put up with because you're a freaking tiger in the sack." She grins. It's the wide, lop-sided Joker card radiance that could light up any room on the planet, could light up the dark depths of space. He would do anything to taste that smile. He leans over to steal a quick kiss; it's almost time for another tour.


End file.
